Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
CONFRONTATION
Celeste
He emerges with a cardboard box, the Duke's logo stamped on its side. "Hey," he says, voice softer than usual. "Thought you might be hungry. Fish tacos and that shrimp pasta you mentioned last week."
I've been perched on the edge of this chaise lounge for forty-five minutes, rehearsing what to say.
The smell of garlic and lime wafts across the space, but my stomach knots instead of growls.
Max pulled strings with Selena Farley—one of the biggest agents in town—for someone whose writing he's never even seen.
What did that conversation sound like? "Hey, represent my fake wife or I'll pull my company's business"?
Now she's stuck representing the boss's charity case wife, resenting every minute.
I need to shut this down, tell him to back off, reject his well-intentioned meddling before it makes everything worse.
I smile and nod. “Shrimp pasta sounds amazing, thanks.”
He disappears into the house, returning with two plates and silverware. The shrimp pasta cascades onto my plate, releasing a cloud of garlic and herbs that makes my stomach growl.
"Max," I say, twirling pasta around my fork. "About Saturday night—I shouldn't have bolted like that. Everything was going so well until I messed it up."
His lips quirk into a half-smile. "Reminds me of our first meeting at the Centurion. Maybe I should start ordering to-go boxes the minute we sit down."
I smile in spite of him bringing up that particular memory that I wanted to never think about again. “Well, thanks for not getting too angry about that.” The shrimp pasta is delicious - creamy sauce, fettuccine noodles, my favorite kind of comfort food.
The wine glass trembles slightly in my hand as I take a sip. My pulse quickens. I need to corner him about this, but delicately.
No. Directly.
"Max," I say, setting down my glass. "Selena Farley called today. Ring any bells for you?"
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Doesn't she call you all the time for work stuff?"
"This wasn't about Dreamscape." I twirl pasta around my fork, buying time. "She offered to represent me. Personally."
Max's eyebrows shoot up. "As in...?"
"As my agent, yes." I lean forward, studying his face for tells. "Curious timing, don't you think?"
"Selena Farley? The Selena Farley who’s roster includes all the A-List screenwriters in town?” His face breaks into a grin, and he reaches over to squeeze my shoulder with unexpected enthusiasm, like I'm his favorite teammate after a game-winning play.
My god, he must think I’m an idiot if he doesn’t know I know the truth. “Max, what did you do?”
“What do you mean?” His green eyes look genuinely mystified and I’m thinking that he must’ve taken more than one acting class along the way of getting his PhD in Cinema Studies or whatever. Must’ve aced those classes too.
“I mean, did you threaten her? Tell her that you won’t buy any more of her clients’ screenplays if she doesn’t play ball? Threatened to blackball her from industry parties? What did you do?”
He rolls his eyes. “Celeste. Did you ever think for one second that she wants to represent you because you’re better than you think?”
I shake my head. “Nope.” I point my fork at him.
“See, here’s the thing. I sent my screenplays to just about everybody in town, repeatedly.
But when I got my job at Dreamscape, I stopped sending them out to agents.
” I narrow my eyes. “In other words, I haven’t sent out a screenplay to anyone in, oh, three years and some change.
Yet, just out of the blue, I get a phone call from Selena Farley.
” I shake my head. “Hell, I don’t think I even sent Selena a screenplay, come to think of it.
I didn’t think I had a chance with her and everyone else rejected me, so I doubt I sent her anything. ”
Max shifts in his chair, eyes darting to the window, then at the sky. I can practically see the gears turning as he searches for an explanation that isn't the truth.
Then his shoulders slump. Caught. The confession is coming.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. "Celeste. I needed to see if you had the gift."
My pulse quickens as realization dawns. "You had someone break into my laptop for my screenplays." It's not a question. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth confirms everything.
His silence speaks volumes, those perfect features betraying no remorse.
My fingers grip the edge of my chair. I've got nothing incriminating hidden in my files—no secret correspondence, no embarrassing photos.
But that's hardly the issue. What terrifies me is the casual way he's crossed this line.
If he can violate my privacy without hesitation, what other boundaries might he ignore?
What rules don't apply to Max Kensington?
“Oh, god,” I say. “This isn’t happening.”
Max steps toward me. "Celeste. Listen. I never would have gone behind your back unless—"
"Unless what? You needed my amateur pages to mock? Or worse—you would read them, then ghost me because you couldn't decide between fake praise or admitting I'm some pathetic wannabe who should stick to fetching somebody’s coffee?"
“Listen,” Max says, his voice softening. "I knew you'd never willingly show me. I had to find out if..." He runs a hand through his hair. "You're extraordinary, Celeste. The industry would have missed out on your voice if—"
"Just stop." I fold my arms across my chest, a bitter laugh escaping. "Wait, I see what this is. Poor Max, trapped in a fake marriage, desperate enough to seduce the only woman available to him. How convenient."
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you," I say, my voice rising.
"This is some twisted seduction game, right?
You want to get laid, so suddenly I'm this amazing writer?
You're dropping my name to Selena Farley, probably whispering sweet nothings in her ear about signing me, all so I'll be so damn grateful I'll just spread my legs.
But you don't actually want me—you just need someone.
And since you're stuck in this marriage, you can't exactly hit the town without the gossip vultures circling. So here we are."
Max runs his hand through his hair, his jaw tight.
"Jesus Christ, Celeste. You've got it all wrong.
" His eyes lock on mine, blazing. "First off, you're talented as hell, got it?
" He jabs a finger toward me. "That Varian Fry script?
It's brilliant. Those characters breathe.
The pacing's perfect—had me on the edge of my seat the whole time.
And the dialogue?" He lets out a low whistle.
"You nailed every dialect, every cadence.
I've read enough garbage scripts to know the real thing when I see it. And yours? Not even close to garbage."
My pulse quickens with each word. Is this happening? But still—maybe he just admires my work, not me.
"And that comedy about the women lost in the woods?
" His voice softens slightly. "I nearly ruined my copy laughing.
Each character so distinct, so real. But you didn't just go for laughs—you gave it soul.
That's what separates the amateurs from the pros.
" His expression hardens again, challenging me. "Want me to keep going?"
I stand up and he does too.
Max's fingers lock around my wrists like handcuffs.
"Celeste," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
"You actually believe I'm just feeding you lines to get you into bed?
That I only want you because this marriage has me trapped and the tabloids would have a field day if I fucked someone else?
" His breath is warm against my face, his green eyes boring into mine from mere inches away, searching for something I'm not sure I want him to find.
My breath catches in my throat, each inhale becoming shallow and quick, like I'm trying to sip air through a coffee stirrer.
Heat spreads through my body like wildfire in drought-parched California hills, starting at my core and radiating outward in crimson waves until even my fingertips tingle with anticipation, the skin there hypersensitive to the cool Malibu breeze.
The desire pools low in my belly, an ache so intense it makes my knees weak, as if someone has secretly replaced my leg bones with warm candle wax.
I can’t say a word so I just nod.
His voice cracks. "How can you not know? I’ve counted every freckle across your beautiful little nose that scrunches up when you laugh.
Eighteen freckles. I close my eyes and see them before I fall asleep.
And speaking of your laugh….It's not one of those polite little things. It's real. Deep. Like you mean it.” He grabs my wrists tighter and shakes his head. “Your scent follows me everywhere - orange blossoms and patchouli with just a hint of vanilla. And your voice.” He shakes his head again as if he’s mystified.
“I sit with Spielberg, with Nolan, and all I hear is your voice.
And that kiss at your house - it still haunts me.
Do you understand? I ran before the wedding because this—" he gestured between them, hand trembling, "—terrifies me.
I've never wanted anyone the way I want you.
And I couldn't face it. Couldn't face what you do to me.
Is that really so impossible to see?" He shakes his head. “No, Celeste, I don’t want just someone. I want you. I.want.you.”